


Just One Night

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Greg Lestrade can't get the horror out of his head, M/M, Of course its a gay nightclub John, Pool Sex, Sexual Tension, Sherlock's Le Corbusier has seen it all now, Top John, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 04:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11890539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: On a dangerous night in Spain, John Watson's control breaks, and he and Sherlock indulge in what is meant to be just one night. But when both men crave more, what will happen? John Watson has to admit that maybe he is less than straight, while Sherlock Holmes has to admit he has a heart. If their fear and pride will get out of the way, the two of them just might be able to find happiness.





	Just One Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kabes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kabes/gifts).



> I am literally unable to just write straight sex between these two...there will always be angst, but to be fair, there will always be a sweet pay off as well.  
> For sweet Kabes, who is my muse and most evil instigator.

         They’d been crouching in this small shed for upwards of an hour. John surreptitiously shifted his weight; he bloody well needed to stretch his legs, but every time he moved Sherlock shot him an annoyed glance.

          Bugger it, he decided fifteen minutes later. He stood, avoiding the coiled ropes, stacked baskets, draped burlap sacks and dangling garden implements that hung overhead. Ah, that was better. Ignoring Sherlock’s frown, John shook his legs out and sighed soundlessly. His legs were all pins and needles by this point. He closed his eyes, imagining the hot cup of tea he would make as soon as they returned to Baker Street, the leftover Chinese he was going to inhale.

          His stomach rumbled loudly and Sherlock, turning around to glare at him for daring to have bodily functions and make noise, shot off-balance and fell against a teetering stack of galvanized buckets. The resulting clamour _could_ have been louder, but as it was the noise itself was more than sufficient to act as tinder to the fire; they set off a chain reaction of barking dogs, followed by one or two grumbled shouts as to what the uproar was. Yes this was definitely going to draw attention. As yet another voice irritably inquired as to the ruckus, a bobbing light of a torch swept over the shed. John froze, mind ticking; just as he was about to barrel out the door, hauling Sherlock with him, his friend made his move.

          “Wha—” John sputtered as Sherlock pulled a flask from his coat pocket and dashed the contents in John’s face. The strong smell of spirits burned his nose and he wiped at his face with his sleeve, an action which was arrested when Sherlock, still on his knees, began to wrestle with John’s belt, “ _Sherlock!_ ”

          “Just go with it, John,” Sherlock hissed, freeing John’s trousers and scooping his dick out of his pants with one freezing hand. John yelped at the touch of that cold hand on his very personal—and previously comfortably warm— anatomy and considered decking Sherlock. There wasn’t time, however, as the shed door opened, the torchlight playing over them as a gruff voice asked what in the bloody hell was going on?

          John, with Sherlock’s face plastered against his crotch, held his hands out placatingly, “Um—”

          “Jesus Christ, what are you two poofs doing in my shed?”

          Sherlock turned, scowling, “Hey…” he slurred, sounding quite drunk, “Go ‘way. This is a private moment. Isn’t it…um, Gerald?” He blinked owlishly up at John.

          “’s Peter, actually,” John said with a slight sibilant hiss, swaying a bit. He shielded his eyes with one unsteady hand, “C’n, c’n we finish up here, mate? My wife will be wondering—” _hiccough!_ “—where I am if I don, if I don, if I don come home soon.”

          “The hiccough was going too far,” Sherlock reproved five minutes later as they trudged toward the high road in search of a cab.

          “Oh, really? You’re going to critique my character choices when you shoved your face in my pants and froze me with those icicles you call fingers?”

          “It was the first tactic that came to mind,” Sherlock said shortly, stalking on up ahead. John snorted and jogged to keep up.

 

******

 

          “Ah! Sherlock and John, come in, come in!” Angelo flung out his arms, effusive as always in his greeting. “Here, I have the best seat in the house for you two lovebirds.”

          They followed him, John making faces at Sherlock. Sherlock smirked and slid in to the booth, John taking the chair on the end of the table. “I’ve got a gorgeous lobster bisque, perfect starter for a cold night like this,” Angelo said, lighting the candle on their table, “And Jimmy is bringing a bottle of champagne in celebration.”

          “Erm, celebrate?” A confused John asked, blowing out the candle. He’d wanted a quiet night in with takeaway and telly, but for some reason Sherlock had been stubbornly insistent about coming to Angelo’s.

          Angelo, turning from snapping his fingers at his nephew to bring forward water and breadsticks, frowned and relit the candle, “Yeah, of course! It’s your anniversary! Don’t think I don’t recall…all those years ago you two come in here, so shy…staring so hard at one another over the candle.” Angelo sighed, “It was a very romantic sight.”

          “Look, Angelo, for the last time we’re not—”

          “Just go with it, John,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his phone.

          “But we’re not—”

          “ _We_ know that. Besides, this way we get free champagne.”

          John sighed. Free champagne _was_ free champagne.

 

******

 

          “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, the hotel is, unfortunately, overbooked. We weren’t able to give you two rooms.” The receptionist, young, Australian and pertly pretty, smiled brightly, “But we put you in a very nice double.”

          John groaned. He hated sharing a room with Sherlock; he wouldn’t sleep all night and so of course neither would John. It didn’t matter if there were two beds, Sherlock would mutter and pace, and walk over the furniture and leave lights on and shout at the telly. “Look, surely you have something? Hotels always keep a few rooms set aside for this sort of thing.”

          She smiled uncomfortably, some of her pert cuteness fading at his glower,  “No sir, I’m sorry. As I explained, the hotel is overbooked.”

          “How can you overbook?” John asked in annoyance, “Isn’t that what reservations are _for_? To reserve a room? So when you’re out of rooms—hey presto! You stop taking reservations,” He slapped his hands on the desk.

          “John, leave it.” Sherlock loomed at his shoulder, tossed his credit card at the receptionist without glancing her way.

          “No! I won’t leave it. It’s been a bloody long day and I’m tired and I want to sleep in peace, not have you tearing up the room while I cling to my bed and try and sleep through the storm.” John turned back to the young woman, “Just a broom closet? A cupboard?”

          “No sir, as I said we’re—”

          “Overbooked. Yeah, I got it.” John scowled and snatched up his copy of the room key, “Don’t think I’m not leaving a scathing TripAdvisor review!”

          “The double is ripper,” She called after them with meek enthusiasm and indomitable cheer as they strode toward the lift.  “Have a nice night!”

          “This. Is. Not. A. Bloody. Double!” John shouted. He stood in the doorway of the room, blocking Sherlock from entering.

          Sherlock peered over his shoulder, “Technically that is a double bed.”

          “I know it’s a double bed!” John growled, turning on him, murder in his gaze, “But there is only _one_ bed! She called this room a double, therefore there should be _two beds_.”

          “Unclear nomenclature.”

          “Fuck nomenclature. I’m going to complain!”

          Sherlock pushed past him, tossing his Belstaff over the desk chair, “John, there are, clearly, no rooms available. We will make the best of it. It’s only for one night—I expect to have solved the case in time for us to catch an evening flight back to London tomorrow.”

          “But—”

          “Venting your spleen will not serve any purpose. We are going to have to share this room. We have done in the past.” Sherlock was very calm as he watched John stomp in and fling their bags—yes, he carried Sherlock’s bag like he was his bloody husband or something—on the luggage rack with unnecessary force. Yes, they had indeed shared rooms in the past; but that was before. Before…before his temper grew so thin, before his anxiety levels had hit maximum, before he’d become aware of just how edgy his nerves were.

          “If we have to stay another night, I’m checking with the manager,” John groused, shedding his coat and pulling his laptop out of his bag, “Surely they’ll have a second room open up, or someone who is willing to switch with us.”

          “Just go with it, John.”

          _Just go with it, John_. He went along with a bloody lot. Apparently there wasn’t much he wouldn’t put up with because Sherlock Holmes asked. John pulled up TripAdvisor and began furiously typing, brow furrowed. He ignored Sherlock, who was rummaging in his bag; he barely noticed when his friend closed himself in the en suite. Resolutely John focused on his review, and not on the sound of the shower or the rather insistent and intrusive image of Sherlock in the shower. See? Already this room was causing problems! If he had his own room he definitely wouldn’t be thinking of Sherlock Holmes naked. Well, not _naked_ ; just unclothed. Unclothed, and wet, and why was he thinking of this in such detail?

          A surprisingly long time later Sherlock emerged, hair damp, wrapped in his dressing gown, heading for the bed. “You actually going to sleep then?” John asked in surprise.

          “There is nothing to keep me awake,” Sherlock said, lying down on the bed after lifting the covers. He turned his back on the room, “Goodnight, John.”

          “Oh…um, goodnight.” John shut his laptop down and turned off the overhead light, tiptoeing around as he collected his pyjamas and toothbrush. He wasn’t remotely tired, but he also wasn’t going to argue with the other man finally sleeping like a normal person at a normal hour. Actually it was a bit early for him, but he would have a nice quick shower, slip carefully into the far side of the bed and resolutely close his eyes. Sleep would come easily.

 

******

 

          Sleep was _not_ coming easily.

          John didn’t toss and turn, as he didn’t want to disturb Sherlock, who appeared to have gone peacefully to sleep. Instead he held himself consciously still and stared at the ceiling. He gave a half-arse imitation of counting sheep. He crept into the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet lid, faffing about on his phone for ages and then crept back and stayed on his side, rolled away from Sherlock, staring at the closed door with burning eyes, wishing he could unwind and _sleep_. Concentrating, John closed his eyes and envisioned blissful sleep steeling over him.

          Fifteen minutes later he cursed silently and fluently; sleep was apparently not happening anytime soon. Rising once more he pulled a t-shirt, track bottoms and trainers out of his bag and changed silently in the loo. Letting himself out of the room he thought he heard the bedsprings creak but he didn’t stop. Ignoring the lift, he jogged down the two flights of stairs and went in search of the gym. Half an hour of lifting weights brought on a nice glow and gave him a tiny burn in his muscles but did nothing for the anxiety keening inside of him. He dragged a complimentary towel over his face, hair, neck and arms and drank a cup of water from the cooler.

          Maybe a walk in the fresh air would do him good. Get him out of his head.

          It was after midnight, a Tuesday, and there was no one about; John let himself outside and walked around the breezeway, watching the alternating shadows of the security lights. He rounded the corner and came upon the hotel pool. Tall fences and hedges screened it in from passersby, although it was overlooked by west wall of the building. A quick calculation and John craned his neck, looking up. Their window was as anonymous as any other, drapes drawn.

          They were staying at a mid-priced high-rise hotel on the Costa del Crime, biding their time until they could investigate the office and employees of the man who had emailed them for help. Sherlock was convinced he would have the case solved in no time, and while John should have been grateful at the idea of getting back home sooner, back to his daughter that much more quickly…he was aware he was almost disappointed. Just one night of an almost holiday, and he was alone, walking in the dark. Adventure felt very far away; this case almost certainly offered no danger, no thrill.

          He circled the pool, feeling feverish. His anxiety was still present, not as bad as before, but still there like a humming in his blood. John tried resting in a lounger, staring at the cloudy night sky, mesmerized by the soft fluctuation of the pale blue light refracting from the lapping of the pool waters. Out here he felt a bit calmer than trapped in the room with Sherlock. Trapped, he reflected, sounded dramatic, but for some reason it fit. No bloody idea what had him so anxious but he needed an outlet.

           Thinking back, John realized he had been feeling tautly anxious for months. Maybe it was just loneliness? Almost five years had passed in the blink of an eye since Mary had died; he hadn’t had a date in all that time, couldn’t actually imagine dating another woman. John’s former drive to date seemed to have died a natural death with Mary’s passing; and honestly he didn’t miss it. His life was full. He wasn’t really lonely; he had friends, his daughter, Mrs. Hudson, his cousin Ted and Ted’s very nice wife Stella. He had Sherlock.

          It was impossible to be lonely with Sherlock; any closeness of old had returned tenfold following the events at Sherrinford. Life had tried to part them too many times for John to take a moment of living with Sherlock for granted. He was happy to share a home with his best friend, the man who, against all odds, had turned into a surrogate parent for his beloved daughter; the man who was so integral a part of John’s life that he couldn’t imagine parting from him. Their lives were so interwoven at this point that John knew any woman he tried to date would take a distant third to the two most important people in his life.

          But maybe casual dating was what he needed, something unconnected to his life and work with Sherlock, which had taken over so much of his existence. Sherlock, despite John’s words of wisdom all those years ago, had never pursued any type of relationship. Unless you counted John, as nearly everyone they met seemed determined to do.

          The thought of his friend had the feeling rising in him again. John realized he was clenching the arms of the lounger as if trying to rend them from the frame. The peaceful feeling from the reflection of the water was gone. John looked at the water, came to a swift decision and tore off his trainers and socks, stood up and shed his tracksuit bottoms; somehow leaving his t-shirt on with his pants felt a bit more respectable. Not stopping to tell himself he was being impulsive and ridiculous, John dove into the water, seeking that peaceful feeling once more.

          The cold rush of water over him felt wonderful, and John used his momentum to swim along the bottom of the pool, only surfacing with a gasp when his lungs were burning. He floated on his back, staring up at the sky, willing peace to return. When it did not he began swimming laps, trying to find a half-forgotten rhythm; stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. He nearly strangled when he got his rhythm wrong at the end of the pool and tried to flip and swim back the way he had come. Snorting and coughing, John cleared his lungs and wheezed with reluctant laughter at himself.

          Giving up on the swimming, John floated, consciously telling his mind to relax. Stars…cool water…the throb of his blood moving through his ears as his head bobbed up and down in the water…the faint night breezes were sending inquiring fingers over his wet skin. John closed his eyes and imagined someone touching him; it had been so long since he’d embraced anyone other than his daughter; he wasn’t sure how it would feel to hug another person.

          No, he wasn’t really lonely, not exactly, although he was lonely for touch. But his need for human contact, for a little warmth and release wasn’t stronger than the lack of desire of trying to date again…of explaining his complicated, tragic personal past…the decision of whether or not to tell them about Rosie…to tell Rosie about them...hardly worth it. And Christ, he didn’t have the patience anymore to balance a woman and Sherlock. John absently rubbed his hand over his chest, noting that his nipples were hard; he was sadly excited by his own hands. He needed…he needed…release. Euphoria. Hard, driving, sweaty sex; pillow biting, mattress shaking, scratch marks down the back sex.

          A moment of hesitation and he let his hand drift over the water until it was over his crotch. He wouldn’t actually finish or anything…but just a quick squeeze. Ah. Mmm, just one more…ah. John sighed, enjoying the feel of his hand lightly floating back and forth over his dick, which was twitching with interest. He timed his passes with the lap of the water against his ears, concentrating on his breathing. Christ, his nipples were hard as diamonds and if he kept this up he was actually going to be fully hard.

          “John.”

          _Jesus!_ Thrashing, John got his feet under him and stood up, head swimming for a moment. His friend was staring at him with an inscrutable expression, standing waist deep in water just a few feet away.

          “Sherlock,” John gargled, aware of his hard nipples and his ragingly hard cock. He sincerely hoped that for once in his life, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t as absurdly observant as usual. He hoped the distortion of the water masked the fact that his dick was tenting his briefs. “What, um, what are you doing here?” Then he actually noticed that his friend was in his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, standing in the pool as calmly as if it were their sitting room. “Why are you in the pool fully dressed?’

          “Why are you in the pool half-dressed?” Sherlock countered reasonably.

          “Well I…” Defense! “You never said why _you_ were down here—”

          “—came down here hoping for distraction from loneliness and the aching hunger for sexual contact.”

          John’s face must be bright red; trust Sherlock to state the facts like that. Never mind how his deductions made anyone feel, no, he just blurted them out. “Look, I’m in a weird mood, could you maybe not do that thing where you deduce me in humiliating detail?”

          Sherlock looked away, pale cheeks washed aqua by the reflection of the water, “I wasn’t talking about you.”

          “You always do this—w-what?” John felt momentarily uneven, as if the pool had tilted and he was sliding into the deep end.

          Sherlock looked back at him, his Caribbean blue eyes pinning John in place, “I was talking about _myself_ , John.” His expression had never seemed more open, more honest, although there was still something guarded in his eyes, which were flicking over John’s wet body.

          John struggled to breathe. He struggled to maintain eye contact. Finally he pressed wet hands to his eyes, muttering to himself. Dropping his hands he looked at Sherlock, “Am I awake?”

          Sherlock looked politely puzzled, “Yes of course you are, John.”

          “Because this feels like it could be a dream. Middle of the night, hotel pool, me in my pants, you in your pyjamas, talking about—” John stumbled, chilled cheeks growing warm, “—sex.”

          “Actually you were avoiding the subject whilst I admitted that I am lonely and desiring a connection.”

          Could this night get any more bizarre? “Do you, um, do you need to talk about that?” He was a very, very good friend. Avery good friend who could not possibly get any harder at this most inappropriate time. What was wrong with him? John wasn’t so lonely that he was thinking about Sherlock like that, was he? _Was he?_

          _He’s all you’ve been thinking about, John_ , his mind whispered helpfully.

          No, no, stupid idea, best put entirely out of his head, before the genius in front of him noticed and their genuinely necessary friendship was turned on its ear. He’d lost enough; he wasn’t losing Sherlock too. “Not talk, John,” Sherlock corrected, closing the distance between them, eyes still flickering over John’s face, reading him, absorbing details, tells. John sweated, trying to blank his mind of his extremely uncomfortable and disordered thoughts of just how bloody delectable Sherlock looked with his thin clothes plastered to him. “I want to _do_ ,” Sherlock lifted one hand, water streaming down his arm toward his elbow and cupped the back of John’s neck, pulling him close, closing the distance between them, “We are the solution to one another’s problems.”

          “I don’t have a problem,” John denied in a high voice, eyes on Sherlock’s lips. He was wrong; he could definitely get harder. _Bad idea_ , he thought desperately, nerve endings alight at the touch of the other man’s hand. Wrong, so wrong…God, so very, very wrong and so very, very tempting.

          “Then why were you floating in the pool in the middle of the night, pleasuring yourself?” Sherlock’s other hand settled at John’s waist, electrifying him.

          “I wasn’t—I wasn’t _pleasuring_ myself!” John hissed, still hot with denial,  “I was just floating.”

          “Floating with your hand on your cock,” Sherlock said in that bass voice, shocking John by his very rare usage of a rude word, “Which is silly.”

          “Some of us have needs,” John snapped, blushing again. God, he loved the man but he was impossible—why couldn’t he accept that most people craved a certain amount of physical contact? Although perhaps he understood a bit, as he was getting remarkably intimate with his touch. And his proximity. And the bloody captivating way he was staring into John’s eyes. John felt like he had been spellbound by a magician. A dangerously sexy magician who was indeed reading his thoughts and intent on giving him everything he was yearning for.

          “Oh I agree,” Sherlock said, lowering his head, lips hovering over John’s, which seemed to be puckering ever so slightly without him expressly planning it. _Consequences be damned_ , John’s devil urged him. “ _I_ have needs, John.”

          John shuddered and leaned forward, closing the gap and settling his lips against Sherlock’s, those words echoing in his mind, _I have needs, John._ The first kiss between them should have been awkward. It _should_ have been tentative and experimental and over before it started; if John had given the matter any previous thought—which he _hadn’t_ —that was how he would have pictured kissing Sherlock Holmes.

          It was not like that at all. John sank into those pillowy lips and groaned; Sherlock had serious skill as a kisser. He was inside the firm circle of Sherlock’s embrace, one hand sliding up over his wet t-shirt to rub lightly over the other man’s nipples, which sprang gratifyingly to points under his touch; the other hand, well…John’s mind had apparently flung sense out the window and was embracing danger, as he’d hooked the fingers of his left hand in the waistband of Sherlock’s bottoms and pulled him close, until their knees touched, their hip bones bumped and –

          _Sweet Jesus._

          John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as his hand, without his permission, molded to the other man’s extremely erect and fully engaged penis. First time touching another man’s penis in a purely non-professional manner and he just dove right in. If he was experiencing any crisis of conscious or self-image, John was currently spectacularly unaware of it, instead he was fully immersed in pleasure. Sherlock growled and pressed John back, until his back bumped up against the edge of the pool; he braced his hands on either side of John on the pool decking and leaned into the kiss.

          “Sherlock…” John sighed on a luxurious groan, tipping his head back as Sherlock followed a drop of water from his jaw down his throat. He was stroking his best friend’s penis whilst his best friend sucked on his neck and groped his arse. This was the time for sense, restraint, possibly a bit of panic of _am I actually gay after all and never knew it wow what a wanker I am stop right now before someone sees you idiot_. None of that was occurring to him, however, “Shouldn’t we—ah, yes, right there—shouldn’t we talk about this?”

          Sherlock pulled back from the very distracting thing he was doing to John’s neck, eyes inscrutable, “Do you wish to stop?”

          “No!” Well that was embarrassingly emphatic.

          “Alright then.” Sherlock resumed licking John’s neck but now he was pressing him against the side of the pool with his body, rutting his heavy length against John’s belly. John, unable to properly reach Sherlock’s dick since they were plastered together from their knees up to their mouths, put both hands on his arse, moved about until they were lined up and urged his friend to surge against him. The water began to slap against the tile as the two men rutted rather frantically.

          “Bloody hell,” John gasped breathlessly, nerves taught, spine tingling at the slide of their heavy flesh in the weightless water, the hot burn of sexual need not cooling in the chill of the water. He dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hips and let his head drop back heavily on his neck, fighting for control.

          “Quite,” Sherlock gasped, eyelids fluttering. He appeared captivated by the frottage, hands going to John’s waist, his hips, his head lolling forward as he concentrated on the delicious friction they were creating, “Oh….John.”

          “Yeah, like that, Sherlock,” John praised, mesmerized by the sensation, the rhythmic slap of the water, the lambent light from the pool dancing over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock opened his eyes, and John thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than those pale blue eyes alight with sexual hunger, rivaling the blue of the pool for their power to dazzle. He concentrated very hard on those eyes and tried to ignore his own overwhelming arousal, “You close?”

          “I…don’t want it to end,” Sherlock gasped, rocking into John.

          John only hesitated for a moment. “It doesn’t have to. We have a bed upstairs and all night ahead of us.” The water was swirling around them, smacking against the side of the pool, stirred by their motions. He was so bloody _close_.

          His words were all Sherlock seemed to need to let go; he came, shaking and groaning, and that was all it took for John, who leaned in to kiss his friend’s soft mouth as he climaxed. Panting, they clung to one another, foreheads pressed to shoulders, not making eye contact or speaking. John felt a chill, wondering if it was over now. How would the great Sherlock Holmes react now that the heat of the moment had passed? If they didn’t actually go any further, how were they supposed to spend the remainder of the night in that bed? And if it _did_ go further…how were they supposed to move on and leave this night behind them?

          “I can feel you thinking, John,” Sherlock murmured against his clavicle. “Regrets?”

          “…no.”

          Sherlock went almost imperceptibly tense, “Hesitation indicates—”

          “Do you regret it?”

          “Regret is useless. It is wishing to change the past, which cannot be altered.”

          “Not really an answer.” They still weren’t looking at each other. John smoothed his hands up Sherlock’s back, palms burning from the heat of his skin under his water-logged and chilled t-shirt, “We can stop right here if you wish…but since we’ve gone this far, I’d really like to…make full use of that bed upstairs.” It was not his imagination that Sherlock’s muscles relaxed incrementally.

          “Then let us not waste a moment, John.” Remarkable how incredibly sexy it was to hear his name said in Sherlock’s rich rumble now that they had embarked upon this new aspect of their dynamic. And then John thought, _bugger it, it’s always been sexy_. It had. He tried denying it for years, but he found Sherlock Holmes sexy. He didn’t know if that made him gay, or Sherlock just really special, but at the moment he wasn’t interested in parsing his intentions and motivations.

          They climbed out of the pool and squeezed excess water out of their clothes. Since Sherlock was dripping more, John tossed him his towel and made no bones about watching as Sherlock removed his soaking wet pyjama bottoms and wrapped the towel around his waist over his equally wet pants. They slipped inside the building and rode up in the lift, the drip of water falling off them the only sound, until suddenly the absurdity of this entire night caught up to John and he started giggling. Sherlock looked at him and John laughed harder, “Serves this place right if we flood their lift…should have paid proper attention to their booking.” He took Sherlock’s hand as the lift doors opened, tugged him out, smiling flirtatiously back over his shoulder, “Not but what the second room wouldn’t have gone to waste.”

          Sherlock laughed softly, and crowded him against the door, his hot hands going to John’s waist as John fumbled to slide his plastic key in just right so as to trigger the lock release mechanism but not so long as to cause it to beep annoyingly and relock. Finally he managed it, no mean feat with an impatient man rubbing up against his arse, biting him on the shoulder and demanding to be let out of the cold, “John! I’m freezing!”

          “There!” They tumbled into the room, both of them shivering from the chill of the hallway on their wet forms, which worsened in the blast of air from the air conditioner in their room.  “God, it’s freezing in here!” Not giving either of them time to rethink it, John stripped off his wet clothes and bounced onto the bed, flinging the covers around until they were mostly straight; he held them invitingly up, eyes on Sherlock. His friend licked his lips and advanced on the bed, stripping off his shirt and pausing only long enough to peel his wet pants off.

          Eyes on John, Sherlock actually crawled on hands and knees up the bed, straddling him and going in immediately for a kiss. It was the hottest damned thing John had ever seen. Sherlock broke the kiss, pulled back and hesitated, then, “Just for tonight,” with his eyes on John, judging his reaction.

          Face cool, heart racing, John let the covers drop, cocooning them in warmth, “Just for tonight.” Mouths clashing, they slid together in the bed, limbs tangling and rearranging, hands learning the private topography of the other’s body. They had shared a room in Baskerville, lived together on and off for years, shared a life, bandaged wounds, walked in on one another in the loo, overheard dates and awkward phone conversations, lived and laughed and bickered, fought and raged and run away, come together and made a life out of their lies and love and baggage…all of that laid a foundation for the ease with which they fell into one another’s arms. John was hard again, lust hammering at his brain; for once he wasn’t going to slow down or stop or second guess himself. The only thing stopping him tonight would be Sherlock.

          Neither of them seemed capable of taking it slow; John hoped like hell he was displaying some sort of skill, because he was so hot, so worked up, that he was all sensation. Sherlock felt thrillingly alive in his arms, kinetic motion, flexing muscles, air moving through powerful lungs, hands that sent light trails of sensation throughout John’s body with each touch. Looking at his friend’s face, John was positive he felt the same. He was existing inside the moment, not planning ahead or plotting his next move, just giving into pleasure.

          Sherlock took him in his mouth with little hesitation and limited skill, but he was a very quick learner; John had only to react, or murmur a suggestion, and he was moving, changing, adapting. “I’m not, I can’t—” John tried to warn him but a warm hand on his balls sent him into his climax and he shot his load into Sherlock’s mouth, which resulted in a faintly heard _urg_ , “Sorry,” John said dreamily, sinking into the pillows.

          “I didn’t expect it to be so visceral,” Sherlock made a face, holding his tongue briefly out of his mouth as if the taste were too potent, waggling it rather obscenely at John, “It’s not dissimilar to citric acid,” He licked his lips thoughtfully, “I find it musky but not unpleasant.”

          “Great,” John laughed, smiling at the look on Sherlock’s face, so intent, curious and carefree, “Care for a sample to examine later?”

          His face lit up, “Oh, John, would you?”

          “If you collect it personally.” John stretched and lightly ran his hand over his chest, letting his eyes make promises.

          Sherlock took a second to catch on, but then he smiled quite sensually, “I think that can be arranged.”

          John was suddenly revived. Happy that he could tussle with Sherlock and not have to worry about being too overwhelming, he pounced on him, flipping him neatly and pinning him to the messy bed. “Now it’s my turn to collect a sample.” He didn’t stop to think twice, just rubbed his stubble rough face on Sherlock’s body as he worked his way down to an area he had never before explored on another person. He did very well if Sherlock’s hoarse cries and curled toes were any indication; John found it surprisingly arousing and fulfilling to take Sherlock in his mouth.

          The round head felt natural in his mouth, and the silky hot skin, the salty taste of pre-cum on his tongue actually made John hum. Sherlock liked that, so he did it again, eyes flicking up to watch the changing expressions on that beautiful face, made all the more beautiful for the fact that the usual look of remote detachment was gone. He was sweaty and messy and gloriously engaged; Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his chest as he groaned, his hands tangled in John’s hair, hips eagerly thrusting into John’s mouth and gagging him slightly. Rather than choke a second time, John put a firm hand around Sherlock’s shaft and concentrated on sucking the head whilst his other hand brushed teasingly at Sherlock’s arse.

          “Oh! John I like that!” Sherlock was wonderfully uninhibited, loud, and bossy and John loved it. He stopped long enough to slick his finger in saliva so he could glide it over Sherlock’s tight entrance. “Uhhhhn….yes….” Sherlock writhed, wriggled and tried to seek out more, “Do that again, John.”

          Bless the man, he wasn’t shy. John obliged him, massaging and toying with him until his finger slipped in to the first knuckle and Sherlock bucked in his mouth. After that it was easy; expertly he located Sherlock’s prostate and muffled a laugh as the added stimulation drew a heartfelt shout from the other man. By the time Sherlock shouted, “I’m coming!” it was quite possible all the rooms around them were aware of what was going on in room 324. John swallowed—it was only sporting after his debacle with Sherlock—and was surprised to find it not entirely unpleasant. Although it _was_ made more appealing by the moaning, shaking and carrying-on of the man responsible.

          Tucking them in under the blankets, John risked spooning Sherlock, who came to life long enough to roll toward him and bodily drag on John until he stopped his arm from being dislocated and obligingly wrapped his arm around the other man’s torso; long arms wrapped around him and John smiled as he fit himself to his friend’s chest, listening to the rapid thudding of his heart. He wouldn’t have pictured Sherlock Holmes for a cuddler, but it was endearingly wonderful, and part of the surreal charm of the night.

          “John,” Sherlock said a long time later, “I begin to see why people behave so abominably when it comes to sex.”

          John wished he could put that wondering, happy tone of relaxation and pleasure in Sherlock’s voice all the time. _Just one night_ , he reminded himself. The man hadn’t asked for an encore, their jokes about semen samples aside. Besides, he wasn’t looking for a relationship—his apparently previously undetected bisexuality aside, he wasn’t looking for a relationship with anyone, man or not, and it would never work. As long as they could move past this to their old easy way, John could be happy with one night.

          John didn’t recall falling asleep, but he woke some unspecified amount of time later, aware of a violent need to pee. He untangled himself and padded to the en suite, peed, washed his hands and stared in the mirror. Time to go back to bed; go back to sleep, go back to the way things were before this one night out of time. Turning off the light he returned to the bedroom, slipped into bed and gasped when Sherlock’s hand wrapped itself around his jaw and pulled him in for a most unexpected but very welcome kiss. “Sherlock?” John asked, breathless with surprise and delight.

          Sherlock’s voice was a dark hum, full of sensual promise, “The night’s not over, John.”

 

******

 

          Greg leaned back in his shitty office chair, laughing, “So then Watson here goes arse over tea kettle into the Thames…only it was low tide and he comes up covered in mud and slime and God knows what else…”  he chuckled, overcome by amusement at the memory, “and Sherlock, who pushed him in the first place, refuses to let him ride back on the motorcycle. Made the poor bastard walk home.”

          John groaned, “Don’t remind me, please! I’d almost rather he’d let me get shot. I swear my hair smelled for a week…and I had to throw out my shoes and jacket.”

          Greg’s new Sergeant, a very pretty woman named Emily Vance, laughed appreciatively, nose wrinkling, “God, I can just imagine!” She shook her head, “I suppose I’ll meet him soon? Boffin Sherlock Holmes,” Her eyes danced as she smiled at John, clearly ready to be impressed, and quite open to flirting, if the flick of her hair off her shoulders was any indication.

          John sucked in a warning breath, “Ooh, yeah, he hates that. Don’t call him that.”

          “Oh?” Emily smiled at him, “I guess I know who to come to for the inside scoop on Sherlock Holmes.”

          John smiled. He should ask her out. She was gorgeous, friendly, sending clear signs she was interested; he’d be a fool not to ask her out. “Eh, Greg knows him just as well.” He ignored Greg’s surprised _who me?_ face and stood, “Nice to meet you, Sergeant. Greg, see you later, mate.”

          Riding home on the Tube, John tried to convince himself he’d made a mistake. He was crazy not to ask her out.

            _Just one night, John_.

          Things were back to normal. Just a few weeks ago he had been thinking about how he wanted hot, casual sex, now here he had a good looking woman making eyes at him…it was a sign. There wasn’t anything stopping him.

          _Just one night, John_.

          Shite.

          Things were back to normal. Weeks since their…what? Interlude? Escape from reality? Moment of madness? Sherlock was his usual self, no evidence that anything had ever happened between them that entirely changed the landscape of their relationship. It was John who was trying to hang on to the idea of a repeat, clinging to something that was over and done with. He should accept that it was purely a one-time thing, a moment out of time. What was Sherlock always telling him when he wanted John to agree to some mad scheme that was clearly destined for disaster? Just go with it, John. He was supposed to go with Sherlock’s whims and then move on.

          Well, he’d gone with it, for just that one night, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. About Sherlock. About _them_.

 

******

 

          John was home! Sherlock quelled his sense of…not _panic_ , but rather call it anticipatory elation… and focused so hard on the screen of his laptop that a headache instantly formed behind his eyes. He was starting to believe that his plan to act as if all was normal to will everything to _be_ normal was dismally destined for utter failure. Just one night! What had he been thinking? His addictive personality aside, Sherlock had long known that to give in to his long-standing desire for John Watson was to risk disaster. Not only was there John’s assumed heterosexuality to contend with, but there was their friendship—Sherlock was prepared to sacrifice anything—indeed _had_ sacrificed a great deal—to keep John in his life. Since sex had never particularly interested him enough to indulge, he had at first found it a small matter to subsume his attraction to John in action, his desire for a deeper connection with John in stability, his longing to have John’s love by fostering a friendship more deep and true than he ever could have imagined he would know.

          The problem was, that on that night in Costa del Sol, Sherlock had known, not with his intellect but deep down in his gut, that John was ripe for approach…Sherlock hadn’t stayed safely in the room, pretending to sleep. No, he’d swum into the danger zone with hardly a look back at the safety of the shore. A man could only resist his heart’s desire for so long. The passion that had caught fire between them had been greater even than he could have anticipated. John had been swept away with him, but now they were back to their old footing and John was cheerful and calm, seemingly not bothered by the regret and yearning that gripped Sherlock.

          Just one night…he was such an idiot! The only way the feelings he’d let loose that night could remain contained to one night was if Sherlock deleted the events. And he wasn’t prepared to do that.

          “Hiya,” John said, sounding very chipper as he entered the flat. He looked around, “Where’s Rosie?”

          “Just left for the cinema with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner,” Sherlock reminded him.

          “Ah, yeah, forgot that was tonight.” John smiled almost too blandly and passed Sherlock’s chair, headed for the kitchen, “Tea?”

          “Mmm,” Sherlock agreed absently, plucking idly at the strings of his violin, watching sightlessly as John busied himself filling the kettle.

          “What a bugger of a day,” John called over his shoulder, “The clinic was swamped, and then I stopped by the Yard to sign my revised statement regarding the Cosgrove affair and got caught up talking to him and his new Sergeant.”

          Sherlock grunted.

          “She’s a far cry from Donovan…very sweet and friendly…though she has to have some bite or she wouldn’t have made it this far.”

          Sherlock was on alert; he knew that tone in John’s voice, although it sounded flat. “Pretty, I take it?” He asked, sounding more acid than he had intended.

          John leaned back against the counter, arms folded, eyes inscrutable, “Very. Gorgeous, really.”

          “And when is your date?” Sherlock flinched at the click of the kettle, and was grateful when John turned around, reaching for their mugs.

          “Haven’t asked her out,” John said mildly, stirring too loudly for Sherlock’s nerves.

          “Yet,” Sherlock muttered snidely, setting aside his violin and scowling at John’s jumper-clad back, hating how jealous he felt. This was ridiculous. John had dated dozens of women in the time he had known him, and although he hadn’t really dated in years, it was bound to happen sooner or later. He just…wasn’t quite prepared. It was too soon.

          “Here,” John stood in front of him, patient look on his face which indicated that he had been standing there waiting for Sherlock to stop woolgathering. Sherlock reached for the mug, even though he didn’t want tea. John’s fingers brushed his and the thrill that shot down his arm drew a faint gasp from Sherlock, as his eyes met John’s. John stood still, mug extended, eyes a wide, although they narrowed in recognition the next moment, “I knew it wasn’t just me.”

          Before Sherlock could summon a lie, John set down both mugs and stepped too close, leaning over, hands bracketing him. His face was inches from Sherlock’s, who hoped his expression wasn’t giving his desire to close the distance and capture John’s lips in a kiss. Small hope, apparently… “I thought so,” John murmured in satisfaction, lips tilting up in a satisfied smile, and he leaned in for a kiss.

          Sherlock sucked greedily at his mouth, hands coming up to hold John’s jaw, slide into his hair, and pull him closer. He moaned when John tried to move away, and then growled in satisfaction when John straddled his lap and kissed him hard enough to drive Sherlock’s head back against the cushion. “John,” he groaned when John began kissing his way to Sherlock’s neck, unleashing a series of shivers, “what are you—”

          “Just one night, yeah?” John asked, pulling back to look at him far too coolly, freezing Sherlock’s chest despite the heat raging betweenthem, “Release the tension.”

          _No_ , Sherlock wanted to say, _I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t_. Only he didn’t say that. Of course he didn’t. This was John, and he would do anything for John, even destroy his own heart. “Just one night,” he agreed, knowing it was a mistake. But it was a mistake he was willing to make, if only to seize the chance for one more night. Eagerly, Sherlock unbuttoned John’s shirt, hands busy as John nipped sharply at his collarbone. His hands on John’s naked skin was too much for both of them, and feverishly they jerked and pulled, buttons straining, zippers rasping as the two men disrobed in a tearing hurry.

          Sherlock gasped when John settled his naked weight back on his lap, when his straining prick slid slickly against John’s thigh. John growled approvingly and took him in another kiss.  Trying to disguise the shaking in his hands, Sherlock kept them moving, touching John, savouring the feel of every inch of him; he grasped his buttocks, drawing him closer. The press and massage of his hands apparently met with approval, as John panted into his mouth, eyes going unfocused as he leaned into Sherlock’s touch. “God, yes…” 

          Instinct and passion kept Sherlock moving into uncharted territory; their mouths wandered and then were drawn irrevocably back together as Sherlock explored the firm planes of John’s arse, lightly drawing closer to his crack. John groaned loudly when Sherlock grew more bold, brushing his fingers over his arsehole, and vocally encouraging him when he massaged lightly, “Yeah, like that…God, just like that.”

          John was busy himself, one hand wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s cock, stroking and pulling, and giving a wicked twist to his wrist as he engulfed the head. Sherlock kissed him hard and concentrated on not coming, as he explored John. After a few minutes John pulled back, dark eyed and with swollen lips, “If you’re going to keep that up, we should do it properly… I have lube in my room.”

          Heart stuttering in his chest, Sherlock nodded jerkily, unable to speak for fear of what he might say. John stood up, giving his dick a squeeze, mouth tilting up in a sexy, one-sided smile, “Be right back,” and he was gone, dashing up the stairs with gratifying haste. Sherlock buried his face briefly in his hands and took a deep, steadying breath, wondering if this was really about to happen. He’d imagined repeat of Spain, more delicious foreplay and lust driven oral sex…not that he might potentially be penetrating John tonight. Although…perhaps John had intended it to be the other way around? He was, as he had always been at pains to assure all and sundry, straight. No doubt he viewed cocks in arses from a different perspective when it was his own arse in the equation.

          “Second thoughts?” John asked, slowing down at the foot of the stairs. He carried a bottle, as well as a box of condoms, and he looked like every youthful fantasy Sherlock had denied ever having before he had decided to lock away his sexual nature when he was seventeen.

          “What are we doing?”

          “Nothing you don’t want,” John answered, coming to stand next to Sherlock’s chair. The Le Corbusier was wide, comfortable, sturdy, and Sherlock had a vivid image of sprawling in it as John slowly sank down on his dick. “Am I going too fast?”

          “No,” Sherlock assured him, heart thudding. “I’ve never—but I’d like to. Be inside you, that is.” He strove for diffidence; hating to appear inexperienced in front of John.

          John shuddered, face tight with need, “Tell me what you want.”

          “I want to be inside you.”

          He set the things down and straddled Sherlock’s legs, leaning in to kiss him hungrily, “Do you know what you have to do?”

          “Go slowly, stretch you, prepare you,” Sherlock said, feeling embarrassed and horny at the same time.

          “Use lots of lube,” John said, kissing his jaw, “One finger at first,” tickling his ear with his agile tongue, “then two,” licking his neck, “finally three, so I’m nice and loose,” biting his shoulder and sending shudders through Sherlock.

          “Have you done this before?” Sherlock was jealous of John’s experience, but also grateful for it.

          “I’ve never been on the receiving end,” John said matter-of-factly, red faced but open, “Other than a finger up the bum while a girl sucked me off.” He ruffled the hair at the back of his neck, embarrassed and sexy and half grinning, “And um, I used to, erm _supplement_ my hand jobs when I was getting myself off in the Army.”

          Instantly Sherlock was gripped by a vision of John in a shower, one hand on his dick, the other exploring his arse, as water droplets streamed down his muscles. Fingers tightening on John’s thighs he ordered him hoarsely, “Show me.”

          John’s eyes darkened, “Yeah?” At Sherlock’s nod he reached for the lube and coated his fingers, and lifting up a bit he reached behind and held Sherlock’s eyes as he slowly opened himself.

          “Tell me what you’re doing, John,” Sherlock commanded, wondering where his boldness sprang from, other than a torrid desire for more of everything John was willing to give him.

          “I’ve got one finger inside,” John said breathlessly, “Just where I can brush my prostate,” he shuddered when Sherlock bit his nipple, “God yes, please keep that up.” He continued to verbalize his enjoyment of Sherlock’s attention even as he narrated his actions, “Now I’m,” he paused, eyes closing, “…I’m slowly moving both fingers, opening for you…”

          Sherlock reached around from the other side, fingers exploring John, “Let me?” At John’s nod he felt with his sensitive violinist’s finger tips over the slick and swollen flesh, relishing John’s gasps and murmurs of approval. The ease with which his fingers sank inside John was shocking, as was the heat, the grip, the almost hungry way John’s body clung to him. Eyes on John, he moved slowly, gauging John’s reactions to see what he liked best; gloried in the sense of power he felt, guiding John’s pleasure.

          John was rubbing Sherlock’s nipples (tickly, delightful, stimulating) with one hand, and tugging on his curls with the other (pleasure/pain, comfort and control) and he began to rock against Sherlock’s hand, ragged moans slipping from him as Sherlock went deeper. “Am I hurting you?” John shook his head, a breathless “no” on his lips, which tipped up in a smile. Their eyes were locked, and Sherlock felt a swelling sense of intimacy, almost too powerful, but he didn’t look away, and his heart threatened to burst inside his chest, filling him with emotion. Hoping to hide his eyes, which felt open to his soul, and vulnerable, Sherlock pulled John in for a kiss and their tongues dueled.

          By the time he had added a third finger, they were both shaking. “I’m ready,” John said roughly.

          “Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, slightly panicky, since it would technically be his first time and he suddenly felt woefully unprepared—not a feeling he enjoyed.

          “Are you?” John asked, sounding edgy.

          “I just don’t want to hurt you,” Sherlock said, which was the truth, although not all of it.

          “That makes two of us,” John joked tightly. He sat back, “If this is too much, say so…hell, I’m nervous too. This is my first time, Sherlock, and I’ve got no bloody idea if I’ll like this or not. Part of me wants you inside me five minutes ago, and part of me is convinced this cannot possibly feel good and wants to stop before I find out.”

          Knowing John was nervous helped, as did the reminder that technically this was his first time as well. Sherlock relaxed enough to grasp his courage manfully with both hands, “I think I’m ready, John, if you are. I’ll go slowly, just tell me if it becomes too much.”

          John nodded and Sherlock shuddered as he watched John expertly roll the condom on, grateful that at least he didn’t come in John’s hand. John added quite a bit of lube and they looked at one another, and then Sherlock slid down a bit, and John crouched over him. They lined up and with his throbbing flesh lined up with John’s hole, Sherlock slowly pressed forward.

          It wasn’t the most dignified of activities, he thought hazily, shaking as he concentrated on not coming at the painstakingly slow engulfing of his dick in John’s body. It probably looked ridiculous; they were moving at a glacial speed, he terrified of hurting John, and hoping he didn’t come too soon, and John—well, Sherlock had no idea what he was thinking. At last he was all the way in, control unraveled, body glazed in sweat, and his heart pounding, and they looked at one another in breathless wonder.

          “Bloody hell,” John said in a thin voice, fingers clutching tight to Sherlock’s shoulders, “I didn’t think at first that I was going to be able to take all of you.”

          “How does it feel?” Sherlock asked, controlling his breathing and hoping John didn’t move. He was a hairsbreadth from coming.

          “Too much, too full…almost wrong…” John closed his eyes, smiling, “but if feels wonderful too…I want to move and see—”

          Sherlock cried out when John rose up and then sank down, the stimulation too much. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes tightly as John moved again. “How does it feel for you?”

          He considered John’s question, “Hot, and impossibly tight…and every time you move I feel like I’m going to die…it’s amazing, John.”

          John laughed and kissed him, “I know, I can’t believe—ah!” He cried out when Sherlock experimentally thrust, “God, yes, do that again, Sherlock!”

          Sherlock would have happily wrung cries from John all night, but he didn’t think he would physically be able to withstand the pleasure pulling at him. They kissed, John’s erection trapped between them, as Sherlock withdrew and thrust, John shuddering at the drag of his flesh. The pleasure was so keen that Sherlock’s brain kept shorting out; his body was pumping oxytocin and flooding him with happiness and a sense of physical euphoria. It was all the physical splendor, the emotional joy and elation he had hoped to find in heroin after the blissful first use, but which he had never quite seemed to capture. The tight spiral low in his groin told him the end was approaching, and Sherlock thrust faster, the slap of skin on skin, the moans and sighs urging his release.

          John reached for his prick, but Sherlock took his place, watching John’s face as he touched him; the flutter and convulsive grip of John’s passage as he came catapulted Sherlock into a blinding orgasm. He was aware he was shouting but couldn’t control himself. His arms locked tightly around John, who continued to stripe their bellies with cum as he came. Shaken and spent, Sherlock collapsed back against the chair, and John slumped against him, both of them breathing hard.

          “Christ,” John said a long time later, as he attempted to get up. “I’m too old to sit like this for long.” With difficulty and no small degree of gracelessness, he moved off of Sherlock’s lap and stood next to the Le Corbusier, one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for support as he shook the pins and needles out of his legs. He snickered, “All the blood rushed to my groin and now my bloody legs won’t work.”

          Sherlock started laughing, until he went to stand, and the twinges in his back sharply reminded him that he was nearly forty-five. “I think I’ve frozen in this position.”

          “Come here, old man,” John teased, offering him a hand, eyes laughing down at him, “I’ll haul your decrepit carcass to bed.”

          “And will you be joining me?” Sherlock asked with conscious lightness. John put his hands on his hips, fingers lightly massaging his lower back, which felt far more wonderful than it had any right to.

          “Just for tonight we agreed,” John reminded him, eyes steady, “Well…the night isn’t over.” He turned, hand out, “Come on then, let me take you to bed and massage the kinks out of your spine.”

          “I rather thought you’d like me kinky,” Sherlock joked, and smiled at John’s laughter. He was going to bring every bit of his not inconsiderable attention and focus to bear on John Watson until the sun rose in the sky and the night ended. Just one night with his John, and he had to make it last.

 

******

 

          “What’s wrong, mate?” Greg asked, “You’ve been quiet all night. Sherlock troubles?”

          John hadn’t intended on telling anyone about what was bothering him—not that he was ashamed, although the knowledge that he’d spent years telling everyone he wasn’t gay only to actually turn out to be a bit gay was embarrassing and he definitely did not relish the _I told you so_ he would get from Harry if from no one else; no, the reason wasn’t shame—it was that every time he thought of it being over his heart seized up in his chest. Somehow, incredibly, things between them were almost normal. After their night at the hotel it had been easier to fall back into their old patterns, aside from one or two awkward looks the next morning. It was like a holiday fling, in a way, something you did that had no place at home.

          But that slow, hot, intense shag in Sherlock’s chair—the same chair he sat in daily, directly across from John’s usual seat—that wasn’t something John was prepared to shelve in a dusty corner of his mind and never think about. For one thing, it was the first time he’d had real, proper sex with a man, and for another, it had been lush and gorgeous and overwhelming, and every time John looked across at Sherlock draped over his chair, he recalled every moment with him inside him. It had been two months and each beat of that night was still fresh in his mind.

          The recall with which he pictured that night was bad enough, something he prayed would fade with time before it drove him mad or drove a wedge between them. But the new awkwardness that existed between them was another matter…John was very much afraid they had pushed their luck by indulging in another night, and in their home, at that. He would look up from his paper, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him, only to see his friend in his meditative pose, eyes closed. Or he would stand next to him in the lab and smell his shampoo and the crisp, cottony smell of his aftershave and want to thread his fingers through the cool satin of Sherlock’s curls and kiss him. Looking calmly across at his best friend and flatmate sitting in that damned chair, listening to a client, John had to fight the urge to close his eyes and relive the hot press of Sherlock’s invading flesh, the rough grasp of his hand, the heat of his lips.

          “…something happened, when we were in Spain in the late spring…”

          “Oh?” Greg asked, sipping his ale. “Usual antics, I suppose?”

          “We had sex.”

          Greg paused, blinking, blinking, blinking, face blank with shock, and then he was back, “Oh…Right.” He nodded, “I—” his face towards the bar top, Greg muttered a desperate, “ _Jesus_ ,” and then, good mate that he was, asked cautiously, “Do you need to talk about that?”

          John groaned, elbows on the bar top, dropping his face to hide in his hands, “I wasn’t going to say anything.” At least Greg wasn’t laughing his arse off, or bragging about how he had always known they were a couple. John was definitely getting him something other than a book voucher or an Arsenal jersey for Christmas.

          “No, no, you’re…fine.” Greg sounded vaguely panicked, as if he weren’t prepared to deal with any of this. John knew how he felt. “Um…”

          “Yeah,” John looked up, trying on a smile which felt pathetic, “Sorry, forget I said anything.”

          Greg snorted, then laughed, looking amused despite his discomfort at talking  about feelings, “Like _that’s_ going to happen, God help me.” He lowered his voice, “I take it this was unplanned?”

          “Just a bit,” John shook his head, “It just sort of happened, like a fever dream. We said just one night, but…”

          “But?” Greg seemed interested now, not in a terribly gossipy way, but as if his own slightly appalled curiosity had gotten the better of him. John supposed he would have felt the same in his shoes.

          “It happened again.”

          Greg’s dark eyes were very bright, a smile playing around his mouth, “Fever returned, eh?”

          “God, yes,” John groaned, “With a vengeance. It’s been almost two months and I think I’m going insane.”

          “I don’t suppose you two idiots are _talking_ about this, are you?” Greg asked.

          “Of course we’re not. It’s Sherlock, sex isn’t his area, as he made clear from day one. He also made it clear it was one night, just an exception. I can’t tell him I want more.”

          “John,” Greg said, clapping him on the back with a friendly hand, “You’re a fairly decent bloke—your views on rugger aside, and an alright doctor, but sometimes you’re an idiot.”

          “Oi!”

          “If it happened again, it means he wants it too.” Greg shook his head, looking fondly annoyed, “Sherlock Holmes never did one single thing he didn’t want to, and you know it. And he’s also rubbish at emotions. And probably he is sitting at home right now with no idea how to tell you what he wants.”

          “So you’re saying I should talk to him?”

          “I’m saying you should go home and kiss him and if he kisses you back, you tell him one night wasn’t enough. And if he asks what the fuck you’re on about, you tell him you’re drunk and pretend to black out so the two of you don’t have to have a painfully awkward conversation about boundaries.”

          “I can see why your marriage failed, Lestrade.”

          “Piss off, Watson,” Greg flicked him a rude gesture and pretended to catch the one John sent him in return. Crumpling it between his hands he dropped it on the floor and laughed as John left.

 

******

 

          Greg’s terrible advice was better than any shite idea John had come up with, so he steeled himself on the Tube ride home to march in there and kiss Sherlock and find out the lay of the land. Luckily Rosie was spending the weekend with Stella and Ted’s youngsters and they had the flat to themselves for the night. So. Go in, kiss him, and either have it out or pretend to be blotto.

          All of which would have been great—if only he hadn’t walked in and found Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room in a pair of leather trousers and a tight indigo t-shirt, curls tousled and eyes smoky with eyeliner. “Huh?” John said, stumbling to a stop, eyes flitting from Sherlock’s crotch to his arms and back to his crotch which, God help him, was molded snugly in leather and looking unbearably tempting.

          “John, excellent, you’re home.” Sherlock looked him up and down, “Hurry and change, you can’t go out to a club looking like that.”

          “A club?” John repeated stupidly.

          “Yes, John, a nightclub. A place where people imbibe too much alcohol and make questionable choices whilst writhing in a simulation of modern dance and looking for a good time.”

          “I know what a nightclub is, thanks. Why are we going?” Maybe this was Sherlock’s weird way of trying to say he wanted more?

          “It’s for a case!” Sherlock was exasperated.

          Of _course_ it was. Wouldn’t be anything else, would it? John sighed, hanging up his things, “I’m not sure I have anything to wear to a club.” He was hedging. He definitely didn’t have anything to go to a nightclub.

          “I’ve laid some things out for you,” Sherlock informed him, fingers flying over his mobile, he flicked a look at John, “You’ll need to put a bit of product in your hair, but leave the stubble, it’s sexy.”

          “It is?” John asked, hopeful. That was good if he found him sexy and was admitting it, right?

          “Mm, yes, stubble has strangely wide appeal despite the inference that one is too lazy to shave twice properly. I think it will have the desired effect.”

          Well that was him in his place then.

          Less than an hour later, hair gelled into shape, stubble proudly flaunted, and too tight pair of jeans and black button down with Sherlock approved three buttons undone making John feel nothing so much as grateful that he had stopped seeking a social life, they stood in the entrance to a pulsing nightclub. “This is a gay nightclub, Sherlock,” John said, leaning in so his friend could hear him, not wanting to shout and have the crowd think he was a wanker.

          “Yes. That’s why we’re here,” Sherlock said, eyes tracking the room. “I need you to look horny and slightly tipsy and oblivious, I’ll be on the lookout for our suspect.” Sherlock waved a vague hand, “Just look appealing and distracting and dance a lot.” He was definitely avoiding John’s eyes, “Lavish me with attention and dance inappropriately close, hands on the arse, that sort of thing.”

          “So I’m your eye candy?” John asked, exasperated and amused, “The girl to distract the mark?”

          “You called yourself a girl, please recall that later when you no doubt misremember the events during the inevitable fight,” Sherlock said, mouth struggling not to smile.

          John laughed and went to get them Cokes from the bar. They danced for an hour, Sherlock’s eyes never still, even when he appeared only to be watching John. They were sweaty and breathless when the deejay put on a slower song and took a break. The floor emptied a bit and Sherlock took John by the arm, moving around the room towards the back. John was having a strangely good time, even though none of this was real. It still _felt_ real, and he was enjoying just doing something carefree and physical, and seeing Sherlock have a good time—because he was, he wasn’t faking his pleasure at all the dancing—and even though it meant they couldn’t talk about what was between them, he found he didn’t mind the delay. Didn’t mind at all, as a matter of fact. But maybe he could sort of lay the groundwork…

          “Sherlock, you’re a really great dancer, I never would have guessed. I’m having a great time and it seems like you are too. In fact, if I didn’t know better I’d say we weren’t on a case at all—” John’s words were cut off when Sherlock whirled and caught him by the jaw, eyes glowing under the coloured lights of the club. He pushed John’s back against the wall and leaned in, kissing him hard and fast. John felt a moment of surprise, followed by exhilaration, only to crash to earth when he realized this was all for the case.

          Or at least that’s what he presumed until the kiss went on and on, and a quick peek showed that Sherlock’s lashes were fanned on his flushed cheeks. He wasn’t watching the room, he wasn’t listening in on a conversation…he was just kissing John with intense focus and delicious skill.

          “Men’s room, now,” John said a few minutes later when they parted for air. He was breathing as if he’d just run flat out, hard as a rock and that exhilaration was back. He was starting to wonder if there was a case. Maybe Sherlock just wanted to dance. Maybe he just wanted to dance close to John, brushing against him, eyes locked together. Maybe he wanted an excuse to act like a couple only he didn’t know how to just come out and tell John.

          They were in luck, the cavernous space wasn’t very full, most of the people busy coming and going, hurrying out to the dance floor where the deejay had everyone sweating to his latest mix. John followed the flow of the room past the doors of the cubicles opposite the sinks, turning down the short arm of the L-shaped room, and toward the last cubicle. He hustled a strangely compliant Sherlock in and followed him, shutting the door. “Is there a case? Or was this just an excuse to dance with me?”

          Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it. “There’s always the possibility, given my abilities, that at any given time I could stumble across a case. Opportunism can often land in one’s lap the perfect vehicle for mystery. Vigilance is—”

          “Thought so,” John said, and crowded him against the wall, hooking his fingers in the waistband of those sinfully tight leather trousers and tugging Sherlock’s hips snug to his. “Kiss me, you idiot.”

          The speed and enthusiasm with which the other man obeyed had John kicking himself for not just saying that sooner. Apparently a command coupled with a mild insult was the fastest way to get Sherlock to comply.

          John had never before considered the idea of sex in a public toilet to be arousing, or a particularly good idea until approximately five minutes later when it became clear the two of them were hurtling toward the point of no return. His hands were shoved in Sherlock’s trousers, which had been unfastened and hung around his hips. Sherlock’s tongue was shoved down his throat and his hands were everywhere. Thankfully the music was piped into the loo, and they were in a far corner, further masked by the noise of drunk, happy men coming and going, laughing and shouting to be heard over the music.

          “Yeah?” John asked permission and agreement roughly, eyes on Sherlock. “Are we doing this?” He tried to rein himself in, “We should go back to the flat—”

          “I want you _now_ ,” Sherlock growled, fisting John’s shirt and not letting go when he started to pull back.

          “Just going for a few things we might need,” John grinned wickedly, and let himself out of the cubicle. He received a few knowing grins when he fed money into the handy machine on the wall near the door, receiving a packet of lube and a condom. Red faced but grinning, John tucked the items in his pocket and washed his hands, fiddling with his hair until the crowd had thinned a bit. He hurried back to Sherlock, who was waiting impatiently; unceremoniously the younger man dragged him inside and locked the door.

          “My turn,” John said huskily, sliding his hands back in Sherlock’s trousers, “I want to open you up until you’re mad with it, and then fill you up…I’m going to screw you against that door while you bite your lip to keep quiet.”

          Sherlock shuddered, hands gripping desperately at John’s back; he tipped his head back, throat moving convulsively, “God, John, yes… _please_.”

          Impatience and lust drove John, but tender caution had him reining in his urgent desire to be inside Sherlock right away. Kisses, bites and slow sucks on that creamy skin helped slow him down as John molded and massaged the other man’s buttocks, drawing close and then moving away, until Sherlock was rocking his hips back into John’s touch. Shaking slightly, John tore open the lube and coated his fingers, setting the rest of the packet on a piece of toilet paper on top of the metal toilet paper holder; slowly he worked his way inside Sherlock, their gazes intent at the slow invasion. “You alright, love?” John asked breathlessly, aware of sharp desire battling with overwhelming tenderness.

          “Yes…you can add another finger, John,” Sherlock said, running his fingers through John’s hair in a distractingly wonderful manner.

          “You sure?” John queried, not wanting to hurt him in his eagerness. And God was he eager.

          “Quite sure,” Sherlock laughed low and breathy, eyes dazzling. John kissed him, because he simply had to kiss him, and pulled his hand away, only to return with two fingers. He had done this to himself and to one or two women in the past, but for some reason, here, now, with Sherlock, it felt different. More intense, far more intimate and his control was slipping. Pumping his hand lightly, John kissed Sherlock, hard and thrilling, until they were both gasping. “God,” Sherlock groaned in a low voice, lips grazing John’s ear and giving him delicious shivers up and down his spine, “John, I’m ready now!”

          “You’re not,” John disagreed, pulling his hand away and adding a bit more lube. He kissed Sherlock, soft nips at his abused lower lip, “But you will be…”

          Sherlock gasped when John fluted three fingers and tantalizingly penetrated him; he bit his lip to stop the noises crowding his throat as John carefully filled him. Letting him adjust, John lazily licked that long pale throat and let his lips rest against the wild pulse. It leapt again when he pumped his fingers lightly, and thundered when he brushed Sherlock’s prostate, drawing away only to return again and again. He was sweating, an iron-hard grip on his control the only thing that kept him from taking Sherlock right away. The greedy clenching of Sherlock around his fingers was driving him mad; he could hardly wait to feel that flutter enveloping his dick.

          When he couldn’t stand it anymore, and Sherlock was begging him softly, John pulled away and wiped his fingers on a bit of toilet paper. Quickly, hands shaking with anticipation, John dealt with the lube, the condom and urged Sherlock to turn and bend over, planting his hands against the door of the cubicle. “Arch that back for me,” John murmured, stroking one hand down Sherlock’s spine and then back up under the t-shirt, savouring the silky heat of his back. The leather trousers were at his ankles and he was mostly naked, exposed and vulnerable and beautifully needy. John squeezed the last of the lube onto his cock and fingers, dipping them again and again into Sherlock’s body until he was satisfied he was as soaked as he was going to get.

          Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, pupils swallowing up his pale irises, cheeks flushed, hair tousled; his lips were parted, glistening from where he'd licked them. “You’re gorgeous,” John breathed, leaning over to kiss his shoulders, neck and cheek. “Brace your hands on the door, love, and relax.”

          Oh God…he was tight, gloriously wet and hot and tight, despite all John’s work. Sherlock tensed when John nudged the head of his dick inside, and he stopped, reminding him to breathe, to try and relax. “Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

          Sherlock nodded and concentrated on his breathing as John pressed forward; they both relaxed once he was inside him, and John kissed his spine, his hands stroking the other man’s chest, belly and groin. He pumped his hand lightly up and down Sherlock’s shaft as he pushed slowly inside him, until he was buried all the way inside him. John stilled, eyes closing as he absorbed the sensation and fought to keep from pounding senselessly inside Sherlock. He wanted to make this so good for him, to treat him with the care and tenderness Sherlock had shown him, to fulfill the trust shining in Sherlock’s eyes. But the urge to move and seek the exquisite pleasure dancing at the edges of his consciousness was strong.

          They both gasped when he started moving, and John shushed him, mindful of the other patrons. God, it wouldn’t do to get run in for public indecency, he could just imagine the headlines in the tabloids if word got out. But there was something undeniably hot about the edge of danger, the risk of discovery, the tawdriness of the public setting. John felt wild and reckless, the way he hadn’t in so long, and yet at the same time he was aware of the tremendous wave of love breaking over his head. John was suddenly dizzy, clinging to Sherlock for support as his world tilted to a previously unsuspected perspective.

          John put a trembling hand on Sherlock’s jaw, turning his face, and kissed him savagely as he pulled back and then sank into him. His other hand continued to work his shaft as he thrust shallowly, and drank in Sherlock’s moans and sighs, whispering against his lips, “Just like that, love…God, yes, Sherlock…” He was determined not to speak words of love here, in this place, but John vowed that their weak promises of _just one night_ were a thing of the past. He wanted all of Sherlock.

          In the end they neither of them lasted very long, Sherlock returning John’s kisses with sloppy, fervent ardor as he came, his cries mostly muffled by John’s mouth; John shuddered at the clenching surrounding his cock and came, grunting helplessly.  They stood silently, heaving breaths sawing in and out of their chests; Sherlock’s head hung limply between his arms, sweat dripping from his curls, as John leaned against his back, arms around Sherlock’s waist.

          Finally they straightened, righting their clothing. Sherlock snorted at the arcs of cum dribbling down the door, and John muffled a laugh, handing him a wad of toilet paper as he disposed of the condom and empty lube packet. They shared a shy smile and slipped out of the cubicle, headed out of the toilets. There were one or two quiet giggles but no one seemed to be paying them much attention, and John didn’t notice any phones out, for which he was unutterably grateful.

          Pretense of a case gone, they hailed a cab and sat back in silence on the ride to Baker Street. It was late, and Mrs. Hudson didn’t emerge as they entered the building. John closed and locked the door behind them, and with one hand on Sherlock’s back urged him up the stairs. Once in the flat he caught Sherlock by one arm, as he was headed for his bedroom, “Running off?”

          “No…the night isn’t done,” Sherlock said, his face too shuttered for John’s liking, as if he were going to go forward with it, but at a remove, their delicate rapport of earlier gone, “Just one—”

          John’s kiss stopped his words. Pulling away at last, he was gratified to see the look of happy absorption on Sherlock’s face. “Let’s have a shower, yeah?”

          The possibilities crossed the younger man’s face in vivid detail, and he agreed with alacrity. They had the whole night, and while John wasn’t sure if he would truly have the courage come morning to make it clear he wanted more, he certainly wasn’t going to waste one minute in brooding tonight. He smacked Sherlock on the flank and hurried him into the shower, laughing as Sherlock slipped and flailed about for purchase.

          John caught his arm, put a hand on his waist, “I’ve got you.” He looked into his best friend’s eyes, which were soft and bright and happy, “Don’t worry…I’m right here.”

 

******

 

          They didn’t sleep until dawn was painting the window sill in warm light, and their eyelids were growing too heavy to remain open any longer. Sherlock forced his eyes to stay open as he watched John’s drowsy descent into sleep. The two of them had spent the entire night in bed, finding new ways to bring the other to ecstasy, and while he didn’t regret one minute of that time, the anticipation of how badly he was going to be hurt stung.

          The last time they had indulged their passion in the flat, John had eventually returned to his own room and they had fallen asleep apart, rising in the morning to pretend nothing had changed. But now they were too tired, and the idea of leaving hadn’t seemed to occur to John. Sherlock touched John’s warm, stubbled cheek, causing the other man to try and rouse, though his eyes remained closed. “Shh,” he soothed, rubbing the backs of his fingers over John’s jaw, “Go back to sleep.”

          His own eyes were burning, and he closed them, hand still cupping John’s neck. Let the morning bring what it may, he was not going anywhere. Just at this moment in time Sherlock was going to hold onto John and forget the future.

          Waking sometime later, Sherlock blinked slowly to consciousness, head fuzzy, thoughts disordered and aware of a tremendous thirst and a feverish feeling of being too warm, tangled in blankets as he was. Throwing them off, he rubbed his eyes, groaning softly. Suddenly he stilled and recalled falling asleep with John in bed with him. Lowering one hand he peeked at the other side of the bed. John was lying on his side, pillow doubled under his head, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Sherlock, “Hey.”

          “Hey,” Sherlock said warily, wondering why John hadn’t slipped away while he was asleep.

          “Did you sleep alright?” John brushed his fingers down Sherlock’s arm, circling his wrist, “you look flushed.”

          “What time is it?”

          “Little before noon…Rosie will be coming home in a few hours from Stella and Ted’s.” John’s eyes were studying his face. “Time enough to fool around in the shower and go out for breakfast if you want,” His voice was husky with sleep and sensuality, “or…stay in and eat something besides breakfast,” His words rang with sultry innuendo.

          Sherlock flushed, eyes widening slightly, he was surprised not only that John was _flirting_ with him, but that it was the light of day and he still wanted Sherlock. Perhaps John too wanted more? His heart raced almost as fast as his thoughts.

          “Thought so,” John said with satisfaction. He smiled, leaning in, kissing Sherlock, “Elevated pulse, dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, licking your lips, staring at mine…”

          “John,” Sherlock began weakly, prepared to bluff his way through a lot of nonsense regarding biological impulse and how it had nothing to do with emotion.

          “It’s not just physical, is it Sherlock?” John brushed his lips over Sherlock’s, nuzzled his cheek, and whispered against his ear, “You want me for more than one night, I can tell.” He leaned on one arm, dark blue eyes studying every inch of Sherlock’s face, his other hand hot and heavy and comforting on his neck as he pulled him close, “Just the way I want you.”

          “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” Sherlock rasped, not letting himself hope too strongly, John would only want something physical—to be allowed to experience this with him was more than he might have imagined would ever come to pass—there was no way John returned even a tenth of his feelings, “Considering the life we lead, it would only be practical—”

          “Deduce me, Mr. Holmes,” John suggested, smiling slightly as he laid a finger over Sherlock’s mouth, stilling his words, “Lying beside you is a man who has considered himself straight all his life; a man who hasn’t dated or had sex in five years; a man who spends all his time with his best friend; a man who eagerly plunged into an affair with his best friend; a man who can’t keep his eyes or his thoughts or his hands off of said best friend; a man who is currently screwing up his courage, hoping that “just one night” can be thrown out the window and an entirely unknown but undoubtedly fucking wonderful and infuriating future can be considered…” John’s eyes contained the whole world, surely, for Sherlock had ceased to be aware of anything other than their mesmerizing sapphire depths, “a man whose heart is racing, whose palms are sweaty…a man who is bloody terrified he’s making a mistake but can’t imagine not asking…do you want more than just one night?” John appeared to have stopped breathing, “What would you say was that man’s probable future?”

          Sherlock inhaled sharply, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath, “John,” he said slowly, “You know I don’t make guesses. You’re familiar with my method.” He smiled, feeling his heart blazing out of his eyes, “I think you anticipate my analysis, which is that, were your question of whether or not I want more than one night to be asked as anything other than a hypothetical, the answer would be _yes_.” He pulled him close, “Yes, John Watson, I want more.”

          John kissed him, or he kissed John. Sherlock lost track of hands and lips and words, falling back into the mattress, John sprawled over him as they feasted. John pulled away long enough to say, “Not just for one night, or one day, yeah? I want more of you, all of you.”

          “I judge you will get far more of me than you are prepared for,” Sherlock teased slyly, fingers sliding under the sheet riding low on John’s hip. “All my nights and all my days, John.”

          “Thank bloody Christ for that,” John breathed, gasping as Sherlock took him in hand, “Otherwise I was going to seduce you every night until you agreed.”

          “Damn!” Sherlock pretended to be regretful, “Think of all the seduction I cheated myself out of!”

          John smiled with lazy intent as his eyelids grew heavy, hips rolling against Sherlock’s as Sherlock’s fingers drew circles on his bum, “Oh, I dare say I’ll still be seducing you despite your incredibly fast capitulation.” He clucked his tongue, “Never knew you were so easy.”

          Sherlock growled and rolled them over, pinning John, who laughed up at him. He hid his own grin, “Easy, am I? Is that a challenge, John?”

          “God, no,” John assured him, “We’ve wasted enough time, I’ve got no patience for a standoff. You be difficult to seduce if you want to, but,” he coaxed Sherlock to rock against him, “ _I’ll_ show you easy, love, just you wait. I’ve got no pride if it means I can get you naked.”

          Laughing, the two men kissed, rolling among the sheets until they lost the sense that they occupied two separate bodies, until they could no longer tell whose heart was pounding harder, whose breath was whose. They had two hours until their girl came home, and they were done wasting time. It was time to start living and loving, and what better time than right now?

 

 

         

         

 

**Author's Note:**

> Since there has been some apparent confusion, please note that there is NO disparity between John and Sherlock when it comes to dick size. They are just both new to receiving anal sex, and in John's case, with his verbal commentary he is both assuring Sherlock he's okay, and assuaging his natural curiosity as to John's experience.  
>  I dunno if any if my readers are personally unfamiliar with anal, but in my experience, the first time anyone gets intimate with your bum it essentially feels overwhelming and too large, even if it's just a finger. So... Yeah. (But hey, when done right it's a delight, so don't be scared)


End file.
